Color Me Pretty

affection for the betterment of themselves. As soon as they get it, as soon as they realize that it's not all about good intentions and selfish need, we'll make up. We have to. I want a happily ever after. I deserve one. I think. “You should call them tomorrow and have them come over.”
    “I want to go to the tree house,” I tell Emmett. “But maybe the day after?”
    “The day after is perfect,” he says and that's that.
    We get in the car and drive to the restaurant together. On the radio, Never Too Late by Three Days Grace plays, giving me chills up and down my arms. The music's powerful enough and hits so close to home that I have to change the channel before I start bawling. It's kind of pathetic really. I end up pausing on a country music station and listening to a song I don't really like.
    I can't show Emmett, but the closer we get to the restaurant, the more afraid I get. My pulse quickens and my head starts to spin. But I'm going to do this for him. He's done more than enough for me; I owe him this. I pause on that thought and rewind it. No, I don't owe Emmett anything. He's doing what he's doing because he … cares about me. So I should do the same. If I do this because of a debt then I'm simply remitting payment, and that's not it at all.
    I fold my hands together in my lap and worry simultaneously about whether my upper arms are too fat or too skinny. It's disconcerting to say the least.
    The restaurant that Emmett takes us to is on the north side of town, situated in a historic building jammed between a shoe shop and a clothing boutique. I've never been over here before, but the designer clothes in the windows clue me in to the fact that this is a pretty swanky area.
    A valet takes the car and Emmett holds out his arm for me, letting me wrap my fingers around him for strength as I push my feet forward and try not to trip on my new gown. That would just be the icing on the cake for me. Claire Simone does not trip on her clothes. That's modeling 101 for sure.
    The front doors are opened for us by a man in a suit, ushering us into a coat room where I'm forced to give up my shawl. I part with it reluctantly and feel suddenly like my shoulders are the talk of the entire building, that everyone is staring. They're not really, but that's how it feels. God, I think as I pinch the bit of skin next to my armpit. Look at that fucking chicken wing. I must look pitiful trying to play dress up. This is In-between Claire's thought. New Claire thinks about how horribly skinny she is and how she should've worn something with straps. I ignore In-between Claire and force New Claire to shut the hell up. Fat is fairly difficult to work with – it takes exercise and dieting. Skinny, on the other hand, just has to freaking eat. If I'm worried about it, I should just stuff a steak down my throat.
    The thought makes me physically ill.
    I bring up my new mantra and repeat it over and over and over again in my head. It helps. A little.
    Live for them. Live for him. Live for me.
    I squeeze Emmett's arm hard, letting him guide me around tables and past plate after plate after plate of food. My mind spins with numbers and aggressive thoughts. Look at that woman, already fat as hell, with a freaking rack of lamb in front of her. Doesn't she know that even that amount has 250 calories, 180 of them from fat? Is she freaking delusional?
    I keep a smile on my face and try to convince both Emmett and myself that nothing is wrong. My legs are shaking and my armpits are slick with sweat, but no, I'm perfectly fine. Really. Just peachy.
    Emmett stops suddenly and just stares, focusing his eyes on a single table in the back left corner. There's a small booth there with a high backed seat, red as sin. The people sitting in it are plain enough, unremarkable. There's a man with a balding head and a halo of white hair talking with a woman who's probably younger, but not by a lot. They seem happy, normal. Then I glance over at Emmett and see a sheen of sweat on his forehead. His eyes are locked onto this couple, frozen and unblinking. It takes him a few minutes to snap out of it.
    “You alright?” I ask him, wishing I had the strength to hold him the same way he holds me. But I can't. All I can do is follow him around and stay in control of myself, do my best not to make things worse. We make our way over to the table, slowly, purposely dragging our feet along the dark, burgundy carpeting. Emmett isn't ready. He's preparing himself,